


A Little Bird Told Me

by CozyMittens



Category: Mary Poppins (Movies), Mary Poppins - P. L. Travers
Genre: Family, Gen, Grief, Hope, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:33:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23386669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyMittens/pseuds/CozyMittens
Summary: Twenty-five years ago Mary Poppins saved Mr. Banks and taught him the importance of family.  But what about the fathers she wasn't able to save and the families she couldn't help?  Does she ever give up on them?  Mr. Dawes Jr. is being haunted by an umbrella.  Not just any umbrella, this one is large and old fashioned with a bright green parrot head for a handle, and it's reminding him of the past.
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

Mr. Dawes Jr. was being haunted by an umbrella. Not just any umbrella. This one was large and old fashioned with a bright green parrot head for a handle. He first noticed it in the stand at his club when he went to deposit his own modest umbrella into the receptacle. Mr. Dawes believed that life should be governed by precision and order. He did not approve of decorative accessories and this model was particularly egregious. The gaudy green feathers on the parrot head offended his sense of decorum and the shape of the handle made it difficult to grip in the wind and rain rendering the umbrella useless for its intended purpose. How strange it was to find a similar umbrella inhabiting the stand in his own home when he returned later that evening.

Mr. Dawes surveyed the umbrella with curiousity. Where on earth had it come from? He knew he hadn’t purchased such a thing. Perhaps a visitor had left it and Norris, his faithful butler, had put it in the stand until it was claimed. As Mr. Dawes continued down the hall and towards the stairway he heard a rustling sound. Turning he saw that the umbrella had shifted position and now appeared to be watching him as he walked away. He must have bumped it when he turned to go upstairs. Putting the matter our of his mind, Mr. Dawes went to bed.

Mr. Dawes was thoughtful at breakfast the following morning. The visit to his club had been very strange. He had been in the States visiting his daughter and had not dined there for several months. Everyone seemed happy to see him but they also seemed to be watching him closely. Mr. Dawes had the distinct impression that some of the members were talking about him behind his back. It made him very uncomfortable, so uncomfortable that he glanced down at his clothing several times during the evening to make sure his socks matched and that he hadn’t spilled food on his tie. There had been several inquiries about his health and two of the older partners from the bank had made a point of speaking to him. “I rather thought you would be staying in New York with Lavinia,” said John Mousely. “Is she coming over here to be with you?” asked William Tubbs.

“How strange,” thought Mr. Dawes. “It’s almost as if they think I need her to take care of me.” Perhaps it was one of the perils of aging. People thought you were on the brink of decrepitude and senility just because you had passed your eighth decade. Why he wasn’t even 90 yet. His brother Albert was still sharp as a tack in spite of being four years older and their father had been just a few months shy of 100 when he passed, still holding the reins of the bank firmly in his hands.

A sound like a cough or someone clearing their throat drew his attention to the corner of the dining room. There leaning against the wall was the parrot headed umbrella. “How the devil did that get in here?” Thought Mr. Dawes, and rang the bell for Norris. Norris had no idea what an umbrella was doing in the dining room but he removed it and put it back in the stand in the hall.

After breakfast Mr. Dawes retired to the library to catch up on his correspondence and try to read the novel someone had recommended. The novel was long and densely written. Mr. Dawes caught himself nodding off three times. Maybe he had retired too soon. The hours of the morning moved slowly, particularly the ones when he used to be busy at the bank. He thought some of visiting, but William had everything under control. He was determined not to be like his own father. Mr. Dawes Sr. had maintained his office in the bank long after he had ceded his position as head of the organization to his son. It had been a miserable time for Mr. Dawes Jr. who had been head of the bank in name only.

Mr. Dawes Jr. was reluctant to put any relative of his through a similar experience even if it was only a great nephew. Of course there had been a time when he thought William would be his son in law. Lavinia had ended that plan. “How different things would be,” thought Mr. Dawes, “if Jack had lived long enough to inherit my shares in the bank.” Jonathan Herbert Dawes III had been every father’s dream. Smart, talented and handsome, he had died unexpectedly at the age of 16.

For that matter would things have been any different if Bertie had survived the war. Probably not, thought Mr. Dawes. He didn’t like to think about his disappointing second son who had been estranged from the family before his death. Mr. Dawes had not seen his son in years. When the message from the War Department arrived telling him that Albert was missing in action and presumed dead it was the first indication he had that his son was even alive. Found and lost in less time than it took to read the letter. Mr. Dawes took the unopened parcel containing Bertie’s effects upstairs to the attic and left it, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The heavy book he was holding slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a thump. “Bother!” Thought Mr. Dawes and stooped over to pick it up. That was when he noticed the umbrella by the fireplace. The parrot’s beady eyes were looking right at him. He arose from his chair and leaving the book where it fell walked across the room to the umbrella. He picked it up and turned it slowly in his hands examining it from every angle. This time he decided to return it to the umbrella stand himself.

“Is everything all right sir?” Inquired a voice.

Turning, Mr. Dawes saw Norris standing in the hall behind him.

“Yes,” he answered. “It’s just this umbrella...” Mr. Dawes voice trailed off. He couldn’t very well say that the umbrella was following him. “I’ve never seen it before,” he improvised, “but it seems very familiar. Did someone leave it here?”

“I’ve never noticed it before,” said Norris. “Someone must have left it, but I don’t remember anyone carrying it into the house. It’s quite distinctive.”

Norris looked at the umbrella for a moment and smiled. “I know why it seems so familiar,” he said. “It’s like the one in Miss Lavinia’s books. It talks.”

“What talks?” Asked Mr. Dawes.

“The umbrella does, that is the parrot on the handle talks. They’re always trying to make it be quiet. In one of the stories Master Jack wraps his handkerchief around the beak to silence it.” He continued, “Miss Lavinia always had a marvelous imagination, always up in her room writing in her journals and making up stories. Mrs. Norris and I weren’t a bit surprised when she turned out to be an author.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dawes. “Yes that must be it.” He went back into the library and started searching the shelves to the left of the fireplace. He soon found what he was looking for. Mr. Dawes had read dozens of his daughter’s published articles, two of her novels and her history of the court of Louis XIV, but he had never read any of her children’s books. There they were, as new as the day the publisher had mailed them, their spines still stiff and some of the pages still uncut. Mr. Dawes looked through the volumes and chose one. Best to start at the beginning he thought and go in order.

Late in the afternoon Mr. Dawes laid the book aside. His daughter was a very good writer. He had not dozed off once and he had lost track of the hours as he read. He needed time to sort out his thoughts and get his feelings under control before he started the second volume. For the first time in his life he had met his children—not the images of them he had carried around in his head for 50 some years—but the real people they had been. It was obvious from the first page that Lavinia had inserted herself and her two brothers into the story as the main characters. As Jack, Bertie and Vinnie they travelled the world with their magical nanny and her talking umbrella. They had ridden elephants, been kidnapped by pirates and visited the bottom of the ocean where they had spoken to an ancient sea turtle. Jack (brilliant and impatient with the younger siblings who couldn’t keep up), Bertie (too shy to speak but showing uncommon courage in the face of danger), and Vinnie (angry and rebellious at being left behind because she was the youngest and a girl) had each learned to value the other two for their differences and grown up in the process. Lavinia had dedicated the first book to Jonathan and Albert, her brothers and best friends.

Mr. Dawes sighed. There was no mention of a father in the book. He guessed that was to be expected. Maybe the Dawes family lived such long lives because they needed more time to make up for their mistakes. He half expected to see the parrot headed umbrella in the library when he finished but it was nowhere in sight. He didn’t see it again until he was in bed. The curtains in his room were open and the soft moonlight illuminated the objects inside. There it was leaning against the chest of drawers. Mr. Dawes was quite certain it hadn’t been there when he undressed or put his watch and ring on the tray of his night stand.

He surveyed it from his position in the bed. Should he talk to it he wondered and see if it answered back. But he had no idea what to say to an umbrella. In the book the parrot had been very talkative. He decided to let the parrot have the first word. He rolled over and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m using the umbrella from the first movie rather than the more stylized one from Mary Poppins Returns. I think it suits the story better.


	2. Chapter 2

When Mr. Dawes awoke in the morning the umbrella was gone. He felt strangely bereft. Perhaps he should have tried talking to it after all. Upon finishing his breakfast Mr. Dawes went into the library and began reading the second book. This volume was better than the first, the adventures more exciting and the children more mature. Had his children really been so bright and lively, or was this just an example of Lavinia’s story telling ability?

Mr. Dawes didn’t know much about being a child or children in general. His parents had treated him like a small adult and he had brought his children up the same way. As a proper Victorian father he had provided a home and discipline. Julia, his late wife, had taken care of the daily matters relating to the children when they were small. After her death the housekeeper and the nannies did what was needed. 

Jane and Michael Banks were the first children Mr Dawes had ever observed closely, and he found them quite fascinating albeit a little horrifying. They had, after all, created a riot in the bank and forced it to close its doors for the first time in 150 years. Given George Banks good fortune in being hired back to Fidelity Fiduciary one would have thought he would have kept his children as far away as possible. That had not been the case. Banks kept photographs of his family in his office and Mrs. Banks accompanied by Jane and Michael visited frequently. Against all odds Mr. Dawes became quite fond of them. He even had a candy jar put on his secretary’s desk when he discovered that Jane was fond of toffees. Mr. Dawes had always assumed that George Banks’ children were exceptional but maybe they were more typical than he realized.

Mr. Dawes wondered if there were any clues about his own children left in the house. Toys, books and clothes were long gone, but he remembered that some of their possessions had been packed away in a couple trunks upstairs in the attic. Later that night after everyone had gone to bed, Mr. Dawes got up and put on his robe and slippers . He headed towards the attic stairs determined to look through the trunks. 

The attic wasn’t wired for electricity, but just inside the door was a shelf holding two oil lamps and a box of matches. Mr. Dawes lit one and made his way across the room where three trunks were lined against the wall. He put the lamp on a small pie crust table and pulled up a chair so he could sit down as he looked through the contents.

The first trunk belonged to his wife and bore her initials JAD for Julia Anne Dawes. When he lifted the lid the faint scent of lavender and cedar rose gently into the air. On the top Mr. Dawes could see the folded lace of her wedding veil and the christening gown worn by all three of the children when they were baptized. He wondered what other treasures she had tucked away inside, but tonight was not the time to look. Lavinia and her daughter were coming to visit in June. He would find someone to move the trunk downstairs and Lavinia and Julie could sort through it then.

The second trunk had no initials. When he opened the lid he came face to face with Lavinia’s doll. She had several dolls but this one was her favorite. Mr. Dawes Sr. had sent her back to the nursery one evening when she brought it down to supper because toys had no business in the dining room. In a rare display of temper Julia had accompanied Lavinia upstairs saying that she preferred the nursery to the company at the table. The air between his father and wife had remained icy for weeks afterward.

Several small boxes containing Lavinia’s better pieces of jewelry were in the tray next to the doll. They really needed to be in the safe, thought Mr. Dawes. Here was the pearl necklace he had given her on her 16th birthday, a brooch that had belonged to Julia and a pair of earrings from her grandmother. The final box held her engagement ring. Why was that still here he wondered. It should have gone back to William. Then he remembered that the ring was a Dawes family heirloom and had once belonged to his mother. Mr. Dawes Sr. had given it to William to present to Lavinia when their engagement was announced. It was one of the benefits of cousins marrying that all the jewelry stayed in the family.

All the money would have stayed too. Mr. Dawes remembered his father’s cold fury when it was discovered that Lavinia had left without a word to anyone on the day of her wedding, jilting her cousin at the alter and upending the marriage that would have kept the family fortune intact. His own anger had burned white hot. It had taken all their influence and even more of their money to keep the scandal secret and the newspapers quiet while they searched for her.

Almost a year later detectives found her in New York. She was writing for a newspaper, doing investigative reporting she said like Nellie Bly. And she was married—to the young Irishman she had met on the boat crossing the Atlantic. It was too much for Mr. Dawes Sr. who declared her dead to the family. From that day on her name was never mentioned in his presence. A year later she wrote to Mr. Dawes Jr to let him know he was a grandfather and that his grandson’s name was Christopher. Furious, he had written back that she had disgraced the family and he never wanted to hear from her again. Lavinia had taken him at his word. It would be almost ten years before any more letters passed between them and he would have to write first.

Under the tray there were a number of notebooks and journals all filled with Lavinia’s childish hand writing. Just paging through them Mr. Dawes could see her potential as a story teller. Several were illustrated with pictures and Mr. Dawes was startled to realize that Albert had done the drawings. In the stack he found a handmade book done by both of them and dedicated to Jack. It looked like a present made for his birthday. Mr. Dawes set it aside to take downstairs.

Very little in the trunk belonged to Albert. A small rucksack contained some art supplies and a sketchbook. Mr. Dawes paged through the sketchbook amazed at the beauty of the drawings. He had never seen them. He had no idea that Bertie could even draw. The sketchbook was a nature journal of sorts. Next to the drawings of plants and animals Albert had made notes identifying the species and when he had observed them. At least that’s what it looked like. Mr. Dawes looked at the illegible hand writing and the misspelled words and felt his old sense of frustration and anger with his younger son.

Sheer laziness and willful stubbornness, that’s all it could be. How else could one explain why such a bright boy did so poorly in school. He had joked and clowned his way through his first year, behavior that was not tolerated at home. Eventually it had caught up to him his second year when he began to fail his classes. After that there was seldom a day when he wasn’t in trouble for a missed assignment or a failed test. Mr. Dawes had given the school permission to use whatever means necessary to get him to work harder, but nothing they tried did any good. Eventually Bertie had been removed from school and sent home because he was so far behind.

Since caning and other forms of corporal punishment had failed, Mr. Dawes decided to try a bit of humiliation. He had Bertie moved from the room he shared with Jack and back into the nursery with Lavinia until his school work improved. This had upset Jack more than Bertie. Jack spent hours during his holidays working with his brother trying to get him caught up. Unfortunately, Albert had not returned the favor. His work was as dismal as ever. He had returned to school but was barely scraping by when the tragedy had struck.

“A blister on his heel,” thought Mr. Dawes. “How could such a small thing be so disastrous?” The blister had become infected and turned septic. Jack had died within days taking all the hopes of the family with him. Mr. Dawes turned to the third trunk which bore Jack’s initials. On the top was his beloved camera. A box of negatives and two photo albums were next to it. Mr. Dawes put the albums with the handmade book to take downstairs. Beneath them were Jack’s school books and a box neatly packed with the contents of his desk. Whoever packed it (probably Norris) had even saved his letters. Mr. Dawes sorted through the small stack, remembering the names of Jack’s friends and smiling when he saw one from a young lady. But what was this? One of the letters was postmarked Germany.

Mr. Dawes German was rusty but he was able to make out the contents of the letter after some concentration. It was from a professor in Bonn.  
Dear Mr. Dawes,

I have carefully read your letter describing your brother’s case and reviewed the samples of his writing you provided. I believe that there is strong evidence to support a diagnosis of wortblindheit.

“Wordblindheit,” thought Mr. Dawes. “What was that?” It translated literally into English as word blindness. He continued reading.

Wortblindheit, or dyslexia as some are beginning to call it, is a congenital malady occurring in children of normal intelligence characterized by difficulty learning to read. Though there appears to be no damage to their brain or eyesight their visual memory for words and letters is impaired. The misspellings and letter transcriptions in your brother’s handwriting are common symptoms, as is his struggle to read and comprehend what is printed on the page. I can only commend you both for working so hard to overcome his disorder.

I sympathize with your brother’s plight. School is very difficult for persons with this condition. It may help if someone could read the assignment out loud to him and if he could take his tests verbally. This would be much more indicative of his grasp of the subject since he would not have to deal with the barriers set up by his condition.

I would be most happy to write to your parents and the authorities at your school to share my knowledge and experience working with such children. But I must caution you that there are still many people who do not believe this condition is real. You and your brother will be facing an uphill battle.

I have included a bibliography of works that you may wish to consult. I wish you and your brother all the best.

Sincerely,

Mr. Dawes folded the letter carefully and placed it in one of the photo albums. What did it mean? He had never heard of such a thing. After some more thought, Mr. Dawes took Bertie’s sketchbook from the other trunk and placed it with the books to take downstairs. Somehow he was not surprised when he looked up to see the parrot headed umbrella leaning against his wife’s trunk.

“Did you know anything about this?” he asked. But the umbrella remained silent.


	3. Chapter 3

That same night, while Mr. Dawes Jr. was searching through the trunks in the attic, William Weatherill Wilkins sat in his office and watched with satisfaction as the files from George Banks’ time at Fidelity Fiduciary burned in the fireplace reducing the Banks name to ashes. It was good to finally be rid of the family that had been a thorn in his side for 25 years. Unlike the other foreclosures the affair at Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane was personal. When Great Grandfather Dawes had passed away so unexpectedly William had known that he would be chosen to be the next senior partner in the bank. To be the youngest partner in the bank’s history would be a feather in his cap and put him on track to taking over the bank at the proper time. Instead, Uncle Dawes had promoted George Banks to the position that was rightfully his. For twenty years William had had to kowtow to Banks and listen to the glowing praise heaped on him by the senior partners. For George Banks had turned out to be a brilliant choice, far exceeding any expectations from such an unimportant and minor member of the firm. And he came with progeny, a son that could easily follow him into the bank.

William had watched nervously as his uncle became unaccountably fond of the Banks children. Uncle Dawes had never been interested in children, even his own. He hadn’t shed a single tear over Jack or Bertie and he hadn’t spoken to Lavinia in years. That left William as the closest relative left to inherit his uncle’s estate and shares. You never knew though. His uncle might just take it into his head to leave some of his fortune to Jane and Michael. The financial prospects for the Banks children faded when Uncle Dawes reconciled with his daughter and she provided him with two grandsons. William had regretfully bid farewell to the prospect of inheriting his great uncle’s money, but the bank shares were another story. Lavinia’s sons were Americans and had little interest in moving to England to run a bank.

Fortune seemed to be smiling on William when five years ago George Banks had unexpectedly passed away, leaving his position open for William to move into. William had taken full advantage of the situation to maneuver himself into a leadership role and through virtue of family connections and the prospect of inheriting his uncle’s shares in the bank be marked as the heir apparent. And then, just when William thought he need never think about the Banks family again, Uncle Dawes’ had hired Michael Banks as a part time teller. What if he was checking to see if Michael had any aptitude for banking or had some scheme of helping the Banks family financially by leaving them some of his shares?

But Uncle Dawes had apparently only hired Michael Banks out of friendship for his deceased father. Shortly afterwards he had stepped down from active leadership in the bank leaving William in charge. He asked only that William keep an eye out for Banks and over look any problems he might have in fulfilling his duties saying that Michael was still grieving his wife’s death. His uncle didn’t anticipate that Banks would need the position for very long, just until he had time to get his feet back under him. Well it had been a year and Banks was still hanging on to his job. Fortunately, he showed no talent for banking, barely able to balance his drawer at the end of the day. The man seemed to be in a perpetual fog. Letting him go would be quite easy, and he would have the house to boot.

William planned on claiming the house at Cherry Tree Lane for himself. It would give him a perverse sense of joy to live in George Banks’ home—a fitting revenge for the decades he had waited on the sidelines for the job that should have been his. William had only contempt for Michael Banks, who was weak and stupid. His sister, however, had grown up to be quite pretty. She was something of a firebrand too, charging into his office this morning without an appointment. He wondered how grateful Jane Banks would be if he were to help her brother with the mortgage and if it would be worth the effort of finding out how far she would be willing to go for that help. The fire made a soft hissing sound as the sheaf of paper on top collapsed into ash. Happy thoughts, thought William Weatherill Wilkins to himself, happy thoughts.  
*****  
The trip to the attic was more tiring than Mr. Dawes had anticipated. He slept late the following morning and only awakened when a worried Norris knocked on his bedroom door. Norris was even more alarmed when Mr. Dawes asked to have his breakfast brought up on a tray and requested him to call Young Dr. Bailey’s office and ask the doctor to stop by. Young Dr. Bailey asked Norris several questions to establish if Mr. Dawes was in pain or confused. It sounded as if he was merely tired, but it was always good to pay attention to changes in an elderly person’s behavior. Young Dr. Bailey had heard certain rumors circulating in London about his patient. He felt that a house call was a very good idea and assured Norris he would stop by later that morning on his rounds.

Mr. Dawes found the experience of breakfast in bed rather relaxing. Maybe he should try it again, but not too soon. It would never do to establish such a bad habit this late in his life. He was faced with a conundrum. Whenever he had needed information on a topic he had asked his secretary to find it for him. He had no idea how she accomplished this. He assumed she delegated it to someone, but without a secretary he had no idea where to start. After some thought he called the bank and asked to speak to Miss Farthing.

Miss Penny Farthing was happy to help. She was fond of the old gentleman who had always treated her respectfully. She carefully wrote down the words he gave her and spelled them back to make sure they were correct. There were two clerks downstairs that were very good at research. She’d put them both to work. They needed something to keep them busy: the new boss seldom needed their services. Miss Farthing shook her head. She was not happy with Mr. Wilkins. There were things going on that she didn’t like. All the documents she had brought from George Banks’ files had not been returned and it looked as if a page from the ledger had been removed.

Good record keeping was almost a religion at the Fidelity Fiduciary Bank. She was glad she had only brought the copies and not the originals. She picked up her purse and checked her key ring. The key to the Archives Room was still on it. She had not returned it to the cabinet where it belonged. Barring the unlikely event that Mr. Wilkins had had the key copied, she would know if he needed to get into the room again. This could get her fired, she knew it. If it did, she intended to go out fighting.

Miss Farthing felt in the purse for the small notebook with the elastic band she had started carrying. She was keeping careful notes of her observations. Each night she looked them over trying to decide if she could trust any of the remaining partners with the information she was collecting. She had to admit that there wasn’t much evidence of actual wrong doing, but it just didn’t feel right. She wondered how much of what Mr. Wilkins was saying about Mr. Dawes was true. He hadn’t sounded confused on the phone. When the research was ready she would take it over in person and see for herself. Maybe she could drop a hint that he should look in on his nephew once in a while.

Young Dr. Bailey who would be 60 on his next birthday arrived at 11:00. He had been Young Dr. Bailey for more than 30 years, ever since he had gone into partnership with his father. He thought he might become Old Dr. Bailey when his son joined the practice, but it was not to be. He had been Young Dr. Bailey for too long. The nurses and patients who had watched Dick grow up referred to them as Young Dr. Bailey and Dr. Richard.

He found Mr. Dawes in the library. Mr. Dawes was dressed and seemed very alert. No, no he told the doctor, he felt fine, just a little tired. He needed to consult him on a completely different matter. He had a letter he wanted the doctor to read and give him his opinion. The letter was quite old and written in German. Dr. Bailey’s German was very good, but he decided to pretend otherwise and see how well Mr. Dawes translated the letter. Mr. Dawes did a fairly accurate translation, and Dr. Bailey was pleased to see that the old man’s mind was clear and his intellect unimpaired.

He had heard of dyslexia, he told Mr. Dawes, but he didn’t know much about it. Richard might know more. He was younger and his knowledge more up to date. Dr. Bailey had known several individuals with symptoms like the ones in the letter so he didn’t doubt the condition existed. The trouble was it really wasn’t a medical problem since they were all healthy. Might he ask why Mr. Dawes was interested in the topic?

Mr. Dawes sighed and looked over by the fireplace where an old fashioned umbrella with the head of a parrot was leaning against the book shelves. His voice faltered for the first time during the meeting. “I don’t know how to explain,” he said. “My son Albert, I never understood why...I thought he was lazy or stupid...I don’t know. And now I’ve found this letter and I just don’t know. I’m trying to understand.”

With his guard down Mr Dawes suddenly seemed frail and vulnerable. He didn’t object when Dr. Bailey took his pulse and listened to his lungs. The old gentleman’s constitution was sound as a bell and so far the Doctor had seen no sign of confusion or dementia. But now he had a different worry. Mr. Dawes clearly had a great deal of time on his hands, probably more than he’d ever had in his entire life. Now he was alone in this big, old house with only his memories for company.

Young Dr. Bailey had never met the Dawes children. He knew that both of the sons were dead and that Mr. Dawes Jr. had been estranged from his daughter for many years before they had achieved some sort of reconciliation. Guilt could be as debilitating as any disease.

“Does it matter,” he asked gently, “if your son had this condition? Would it make any difference after all these years? You can hardly blame yourself for not recognizing a disorder no one had ever heard of. I’m a doctor and I barely know anything about it.”

No, thought Mr. Dawes. Nobody could blame him for that. But he could blame himself for not knowing his son, the boy in Lavinia’s stories. The boy that was shy around his father but charming and funny with his siblings. The brother who liked to sing and tell jokes and drew beautiful pictures. The brother that above all else was brave and honest. If he had bothered to know that boy he would have realized that something was wrong. He would have looked for reasons why Albert was struggling in school and not been so quick to blame it on laziness and lack of character. Jack had known better. He had trusted his brother’s integrity and had been looking for answers.

Mr. Dawes Jr. closed his eyes remembering the day of Jack’s funeral, the words that had been said and more importantly the words that hadn’t been spoken. If he had only gone after Albert that day like the children’s uncle urged him to do, maybe things would have been different. He opened his eyes and looked at Dr. Bailey. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You have no idea of the memories I have to live with, the things I have to regret.”


	4. Chapter 4

Just before he left Dr. Bailey shared a few quiet words with Norris. Mr. Dawes seemed fine physically but a bit too alone with his thoughts. Did he get out much or have visitors? Norris replied that Mr. Dawes lunched with his brother once a month and often called his daughter overseas. Miss Lavnia would be coming to visit in six weeks. The house would be busy then with people in and out. Mr. Dawes was already planning on at least one dinner and maybe a party during her stay.

Yes, said Dr. Bailey, that all sounded good. But if Norris could encourage the old gentleman to socialize more it would be better, maybe invite some friends over or encourage him to go to his club. Dr. Bailey hesitated. Norris had been with his employer for over 50 years. He might have a better idea about what was bothering Mr. Dawes. He cleared his throat.

“Mr. Dawes seems concerned about something that happened in the past with his younger son. Do you know what that might be?”

Norris looked sad, as if remembering something painful. “Yes, I do. But if that’s what’s bothering him there’s very little we can do to help.”

After Dr. Bailey left Mr. Dawes sat in the library looking at the umbrella propped against the bookcase. So far it hadn’t uttered a single word. “Why are you here?” he asked. “I’ve read the books. I know you can talk if you want to. What is it I’m supposed to be doing?” 

In frustration Mr. Dawes looked around the library. His eyes rested on the library table where he had stacked his daughter’s books and the ones he had brought from the attic. Mr. Dawes opened Bertie’s sketchbook on top and paged though it until he came to a picture of a little frog playing a guitar. It was so winsome and different from the other sketches. And though it was fantastical Mr. Dawes could almost feel the heat of the summer day and hear the hum of insect wings as the little fellow played his song. Tears pricked his eyes but he pushed them back. The past was the past. He had to push on, he had to keep going forward. He closed the sketchbook and reached for the third volume of his daughter’s books.

On the cover was a picture of three children flying a kite. Mr. Dawes paused a moment and looked at the picture. He had always liked flying kites. It seemed as it you could put all your cares on the wings of a kite and send them soaring away into the air. The morning after his father died Mr. Dawes had taken his kite to the park and sent it flying into the sky. With it had gone his grief and he had been comforted by the knowledge that his father had lived a full life and had died happy. With the kite securely gliding through the air currents Mr. Dawes had looked around and to his surprise had seen George Banks. George was also flying a kite. After the previous night the man’s life should have been shattered, but there he was flying a kite with his wife and children as if nothing was wrong. What a lucky man thought Mr. Dawes, realizing that he was just a bit jealous of Banks’ family. 

Asking Banks to return had been a spontaneous decision that he had never regretted. There were too many “yes” men in the organization, too many that had stood in awe of his father to express their own opinions. The bank needed men who could speak up and say what they thought. Over the years he came to rely on George as a colleague and a friend. George Banks would never have dreamed of offering Mr. Dawes personal advice, but his own happiness had finally made Mr. Dawes admit to what was missing in his own life. The day Mr. Dawes realized that Michael was the same age as his grandson he knew what he had to do.

It had taken Mr. Dawes a long time to find Lavinia’s address but he had written. When her reply finally arrived he was so apprehensive about its contents he didn’t open it for several days. The letter was brief, containing the birth dates of his grandchildren (there were three of them now) and a short account of their lives since Christopher’s birth. Despite its reserved and formal tone it was far more gracious than he deserved.

They began a tentative correspondence. He sent presents at birthdays and Christmas which were answered by polite thank you notes and formal pictures of three children looking stiffly at the camera. Then one day Julie, the youngest, sent him an exuberant picture of an elephant drawn in red crayon. Mr. Dawes had gone to the stationer and purchased a box of crayons. He wrote his grand daughter a thank you note in bright green and sent it off in the mail. After that the ice was broken and things got better. The letters increased in number, the stiff photographs were now candid snapshots taken with Lavinia’s Kodak and eventually she brought the children to visit, determined not to stand in his way if he really wanted to know them. The following year he traveled to New York and met her husband.

Gerald Kelly was not so bad considering he was Irish, and Mr. Dawes had to admit that he made Lavinia happy. America had been good to the enterprising young man and Lavinia, though not as wealthy as she would have been with William, was far from destitute. Gerald understood the arcane world of stocks and bonds and the two men, who had dreaded meeting, found much in common.

The family corresponded weekly during the war, both sides agreeing that they wouldn’t risk crossing the Atlantic again until it was over. All that time Mr. Dawes watched George’s children and talked to them so that he could gauge what his grandchildren would be interested in or what they might be learning in school. He asked their advice about toys and books and one year took Winifred and Jane shopping for Julie. There was so much that he owed George Banks and his family. Looking once more at the children on the cover Mr. Dawes opened the book and started to read.

*****

Several hours later he sat the book aside with a troubled feeling. Lavinia had introduced a new character, Cousin Willie. What a loathsome child, thought Mr. Dawes. Was the real William this horrible? Julia had never really liked him, but she was never able to explain why. She always felt a little guilty and tried especially hard to be nice to William when he visited. Lavinia, however, had never evinced the slightest regret about leaving William at the alter. Once when Mr. Dawes had remarked that William had never married she had sniffed and said that she wasn’t surprised. At least her actions had enabled William to live with the person he loved best.

William seemed to specialize in getting his cousins into trouble without actually doing anything wrong himself. Why were the adults unable to see what he was up to wondered Mr. Dawes and then remembered he had never noticed this behavior either. Just as he had never looked beyond the surface with his own children, Mr. Dawes had taken William at face value. He had always been so polite and well behaved. And he was a Dawes, his own sister’s grandson.

He had assumed that William stood for the values the family had always espoused, duty, honor, precision and order. The Dawes family was not warm and friendly but they were scrupulously honest. Mr. Dawes Sr. liked to say that the trust of their customers had built the Fidelity Fiduciary Bank, but the bank had earned it. They had made many investments in railways, canals and bridges, but Mr. Dawes Jr. had been particularly proud of the small loans and mortgages the bank had given. It was an investment in the true fabric of England, allowing a man to own his own home or business. Unlike many other institutions, they worked closely with their clients to make sure they could make their payments. Their foreclosure rate was the lowest in London.

Mr. Dawes wished he could rid himself of the nagging doubt about leaving William in charge of the bank that had grown stronger as he read the book. 

“Children grow up.” he said out loud to no one in particular. “People change. Maybe William isn’t as bad as he was when he was younger.”

“Humph!” said a voice in the room. It was definitely a voice, not his imagination. The parrot umbrella was staring beadily at him from across the library. “Did you say something?” asked Mr. Dawes. But the parrot did not respond.

Mr. Dawes walked over to the umbrella, picked it up and gave it a good shake. “Speak why don’t you?” he said. “You can if you want to. They can’t shut you up in the books. If you have something to say just say it!” In disgust he threw the still silent umbrella on the floor.

“What am I doing?” he muttered. “Anyone walking in would think I’d gone loony talking to an umbrella.” He turned to leave the room.

A groan from the floor stopped him. The umbrella had its eyes closed and was shaking its head as if to clear it. “Too late for that,” said the parrot. “Your nephew’s already told everyone you’re crazy.”


	5. Chapter 5

Now that the umbrella had actually spoken, it displayed all of the snarky personality traits Lavinia had written about in the books. It spent some time berating Mr. Dawes for tossing it on the floor and moaning about its aching head. “Ooh,” it groaned, “My head hurts. My insides are all scrambled up. I’m sure I’ll be sick for days.” Mr. Dawes, who had initially been worried that he had hurt it, began to think about stuffing it up the chimney. “Now see here,” he said picking it up, “you are made of solid wood. You don’t have any brains inside your head to scramble.”

“Well! Really!” huffed the umbrella. “I’ve half a mind to just leave and not tell you anything.”

“Tell me what?” asked Mr. Dawes. “You’ve said precious little as it is. All you’ve done is complain about a bump on the head. Why are you here anyway?”

The umbrella ruffled its stays in irritation. “So you would read the books,” it said. You needed to read the books so you would know I was real and not your imagination. And you would believe me when I told you about William and the bank.”

“William is head of the bank now. I stepped down and left him in charge,” said Mr. Dawes. 

“Yes and a fine kettle of fish you’ve made. Your precious nephew is about to foreclose on George Banks’ home and toss his family into the street.”

“What?”

“Michael Banks fell behind in his mortgage payments and now the bank is calling in the full amount or he will forfeit the house by Friday night,” said the parrot.

“But that’s ridiculous. George owned shares in the bank. He left them to Jane and Michael. The bank has all the records. There’s more than enough to cover the value of the house. And I know there were trust funds. He wasn’t the kind of a man to leave an inheritance to chance.”

The umbrella huffed and ruffled its stays. “You don’t have to tell me.” it said. “Michael’s the one who doesn’t know, and your nephew is keeping him in the dark.”

“Michael,” Mr. Dawes sighed. “George always said he never met anyone less able to handle money. Not that he spends recklessly, he just doesn’t keep track of things. And he’s not been himself since his wife died.” Mr. Dawes thought back to the young man he had given a part time job just over a year ago. He should have asked more questions, stayed in touch. Well, he could still do something about this predicament. It would be a relief to help someone else. He sat the umbrella in his arm chair, careful this time not to drop it or bump its head.

“Where are you going?” asked the umbrella. “Are you just going to leave me here?”

“I’m going to call my lawyer,” said Mr. Dawes. “And yes, I’m leaving you here. I can’t explain you to a lawyer. I can’t even explain you to myself.”

It was too late in the day to see the lawyer. Mr. Dawes made an appointment to see him next day. The umbrella had disappeared by the time he returned to the library and it didn’t reappear the following morning. It just so happened that George Banks had used the services of the same firm. Normally the lawyer did not discuss his client’s wills with other people, but both of them had been friends with George and had helped Winifred settle the estate after his death. “I’m a little hazy on the details. It’s been a while.” said the lawyer. “Winifred inherited the house and there were trust funds for each of the children. Jane has been drawing a portion of the interest on her trust fund since she was thirty. She’ll be able to access the principal when she’s thirty five. Michael’s was similar but since he was married with a family, George wanted him to have access to the principle immediately. I believe he used it to purchase the house from his mother.” 

“Do you remember anything about the shares in the bank?” asked Mr. Dawes.

“They were divided equally,” said the lawyer. “I remember because Jane’s shares were part of her trust. Winifred and I discussed the possibility of breaking the trust so that Jane could have some immediate income, but there was a great deal of expense and paperwork involved. George left Winifred well provided for and she was confident she could help Jane financially if necessary. Besides, you know George. He believed in letting investments mature. In a couple of years Jane will have a tidy amount of money coming to her.”

“Do you have the certificates?”

“Jane’s are here in the safe. Michael has his.” The lawyer paused and then chuckled. “Do you know, he drew a picture on the back of it.”

“He did what?”

“The day he and his wife came to sign the papers to release the funds, they had the twins with them. The children were bouncing around and making noise. Michael drew pictures to keep them quiet. He used the back of the certificate and left it on my desk with the other drawings. I almost threw it away. I had to go running after them. I caught up to Mrs. Banks and handed it to her. She laughed and assured me she would put it somewhere safe.”

Mr. Dawes shook his head. That any child of George Banks could so easily leave behind such an important document was unbelievable, but than Michael wasn’t his father. Mr. Dawes remembered how shocked he had been when George told him that Michael was going to make his living as an artist. “And you’re all right with that?” he had exclaimed before he had a chance to think.

“No,” said George, “I’m not. I’m disappointed that Michael isn’t coming into the bank like I did, and I have no idea how he will be able to earn an income. But he has a plan and he’s working hard. I lived my life the way I wanted and now I have to let him do the same thing.”

Mr. Dawes had been unsettled by George’s attitude. It was a father’s duty to steer his children in the right direction, including a career that would provide them with a good living and add to the family honor. For George to approve of a career that was so...different, had been hard to understand. But George was proud of Michael. One of Michael’s paintings hung in his office and he often mentioned Michael’s work when it appeared in different publications. Mr. Dawes knew that he would never have been so accepting. But maybe George’s more liberal attitude had been right after all. Michael appeared to be a very good artist and a rather poor money manager. And now he needed help or he would lose his home. 

What to do about the situation, that was the puzzle. On the way home Mr. Dawes directed the cab driver to stop at a hardware store where he purchased two rulers, some butcher paper and string. Having tipped the driver and sent him on his way, Mr. Dawes went into the dining room and removed a small tool chest from the buffet. Norris, observing these actions, went down to the kitchen and asked Mrs. Norris for some flour, water and an old tea cup. “I thought you might need these sir,” he said putting them on the table next to the other supplies. “It’s been awhile since you built a kite.”

“Too long,” replied Mr. Dawes laying one of the rulers on the table and beginning to cut it in half length ways with his pocket knife. “I may need your help with the knots in a bit.”

“Of course sir,” said Norris leaving the room. “Just ring when you need me.”

Mr. Dawes worked slowly and steadily on the kite throughout the afternoon. There had been a time when he could build a simple kite within an hour, but now everything took longer. That was all right. He needed the time to think. The amount of the share certificate would easily cover the value of the house. Obviously Michael couldn’t find the certificate or had forgotten that he had it. Mr. Dawes could solve the problem easily enough by going to the bank and looking at the records, but that wasn’t the real difficulty. Why would the bank allow an employee to fall behind in his loan payments? For any customer letters would be sent and opportunities for repayment given before foreclosures were made, but for an employee of the bank a tap on the shoulder or a word in the ear would be all that was needed. William should know that George owned shares. The umbrella suggested that he was keeping mum about them, but why? And what the devil did the thing mean when it said William was telling everyone he was crazy? 

Ruefully Mr. Dawes stirred the flour and water into a paste and then brushed it onto the edge of the paper which he then carefully folded over the kite frame. The umbrella had given him just enough information to be exasperating. Maybe he was going mad and he didn’t know it yet. Maybe the regrets from his past were catching up with him and combined with missing his daughter he was imagining the whole thing. He’d certainly been thinking about the past quite a bit over the last few days. If he was going mad there was no kite big enough to carry his cares away. The sun was setting and twilight was making the dining room too dark to work in now. Mr. Dawes decided to step outside for a few moments and clear his head.

He exited the rear of the house and spent a few minutes in the garden noting the tulips and daffodils that were beginning to spring up in the beds and then made his way to the mews behind the stables. The street in front of the house was filled with automobiles and city traffic but the cobble stoned mews still retained the old charm that had been part of his youth. He looked at the facade of the hundred year old stable house and considered. He hadn’t had a horse and carriage in twenty years and a motor car meant hiring a chauffeur. Maybe he should turn it into flats like some of the other homeowners were doing. He could rent them to some young couples or even a family, get rid of the silence and hear the sound of voices and laughter again.

A cheerful whistling interrupted his thoughts and he saw the lamplighter entering from the main street to light the lamps behind the old mansions. It was a jaunty tune and the man alternated singing and whistling to himself. As he worked his way down the mews Mr. Dawes began to pick up the words.

“So when life’s a real pea-souper  
You must choose to be a trooper  
For your light comes with a lifetime guarantee  
As you  
Trip a little light fantastic with me”  
As he sang the last line the lamplighter did a little dance step and then stopped abruptly, startled by the sight of Mr. Dawes standing by the stable door.

“Oh, sorry guv’nor,” he said touching his cap. “Didn’t know anyone was here.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Mr. Dawes, “I was enjoying it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that song before. That’s pretty clever, a lamplighter singing ‘trip a little light fantastic.’”

“Some of the lads been singing it at work,” said the man. “Least I call ‘em lads. You get to be my age and they all look like youngsters.”

“You can’t be that old,” protested Mr. Dawes.

“Seventy three tomorrow,” said the man. “Too poor to quit and too ornery to die. I figure I’ll be doing this for another twenty years. Some of ‘em at the company’s been tellin’ me I should quit and let a younger man have my job but I’m not done yet so I wrote my own verse.”

“So when they tell you that you’re finished  
And your chance to dance is done  
That’s the time to stand  
To strike up the band  
And tell’em that you’ve just begun”

Mr. Dawes laughed and applauded. “That’s capital. Did you sing it for them? What did they say?”

“Most of ‘em liked it. Angus, that’s the youngster in charge, said there weren’t no way he’d ever ask me to go, and that I knew more about these here lights and gas lines than any man. Made me feel real good. He’s a good one, Angus is, for all he looks like he’s 12.”

“That’s splendid. I’m glad for you,” said Mr. Dawes. “I shall expect to see you in the neighborhood for years to come.”

“Oh that you will,” said the man touching his cap again. “You can be sure of it.”

Mr. Dawes made his way back to the house humming softly to himself, his step a little lighter. No, he was not going mad. His mind was perfectly clear, even if he was talking to an umbrella. Yes, he was old with one foot in the drain, but he was not on the shelf yet. And tomorrow he was going to find out just what was going on at the bank.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been more than 24 hours since Mr. Dawes had last seen the umbrella. He wondered where it went when it wasn’t with him. Did umbrellas have a private life? No matter, it appeared as soon as Norris served breakfast. Balancing on its end, it flexed its fabric and steel ribs rather like wings and fluttered from a corner of the dining room to land on the chair next to him. 

“How do you do that?” he asked. “It doesn’t seem aerodynamically correct.”

“I just do,” replied the parrot. “It’s sort of like breathing—best not to ask too many questions or you might forget how.”

Drat the bird, thought Mr. Dawes. Why did it have to put such an idea into his head? Realizing that he was now thinking about his breathing and had just counted his last five breaths he quickly changed the subject.

“Where were you yesterday?” he asked.

“Oh here and there,” said the parrot vaguely. “It was a second Wednesday.” It looked over toward the end of the table. “I see you’re building a kite,” it observed. “What good is that going to do?”

“It helps me think,” said Mr. Dawes. “For example, I thought about you yesterday and wondered if I was losing my mind.”

“And what did you decide?” asked the parrot.

“I think your real enough,” said Mr. Dawes. “I don’t have nearly enough imagination to make you up by myself. But you’ve not given me enough information. There’s more going on at the bank than just Michael Banks’ mortgage isn’t there?”

“I can’t do everything,” said the parrot irritably. “I’m only here to point you in the right direction. The rest is up to you.”

“But who sent you?”

“I’m not telling,” said the parrot. “You should already know.”

The umbrella cocked it’s head and listened as the bell on the front door was rung. “You’re about to have a visitor,” it said. “If I were you I’d ask some questions.”

Norris came in to the dining room. “Someone to see you sir, a Miss Penny Farthing. She said she has some information you asked her to gather. I’ve shown her into the library.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Dawes. “Tell her I’ll be there in a moment.” He finished his egg and wiped his mouth with the napkin. As he did so he noticed the time on the fireplace clock. That’s strange he thought, Miss Farthing is usually in the office by now. 

Penny Farthing rose to greet him when he entered the Library. “No, no please sit down,” he said seating himself in the chair across from her. “Norris said you brought the information I asked you to find.”

“Yes sir,” she said. “I’ve read through most of it. It’s very interesting, but it’s just a start. I’ve separated it into two folders. This one is articles and citations about dyslexia and what it is, and this folder is a list of doctors and institutions that are currently studying the condition. I have the names of the two clerks who did most of the actual research. I’m sure they’ll be happy to assist you if you need more work done.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Dawes accepting the folders she offered. “I don’t want to impose upon your time and pull you away from your real job, but I do appreciate this. I hope I haven’t gotten you into any trouble with my nephew.”

“That’s quite all right sir. You didn’t get me into any trouble, but...” Miss Farthing swallowed and then looked Mr. Dawes in he eyes. “I’m sure you’ll hear soon. I’ve been given my notice. I no longer work for Fidelity Fiduciary Bank.”

xxxxxx

Mr. Dawes took the umbrella’s advice. He asked a good many questions and when Miss Farthing left he had her notebook and the key to the Archive Room in his possession. There were few people in the world that Mr. Dawes Jr. could go to for advice, but his older brother Albert understood the bank and the family better than anyone. He picked up the phone and called his brother’s flat. Albert Dawes reaction was swift and loud. Fearing he would lose his hearing, Mr. Dawes put the telephone receiver on the table until his brother’s tirade was done. When the flow of words became a little calmer he picked it up again.

“Of all the unspeakable, idiotic…,” Albert Dawes was saying. “I have known Penny Farthing since she was a child. I’m the one who recommended her for a job at the bank. She has never been anything but professional and competent. What grounds did Willie give for letting her go?”

“Well that part’s rather confusing,” said Mr. Dawes. “Apparently, he blames her for allowing the Banks children to escape from his office and cause a scene in the lobby. Not Michael and Jane—the next generation of Banks children, John, Annabel and Georgie to be exact. Willie shouted for her to close the door and owing to a large tea tray she was carrying she couldn’t reach it in time.” 

“And the Banks children caused a scene because…”

“They believe that Willie is trying to steal their house away from their father,” said Mr. Dawes Jr.

“And is he?” Asked Albert Dawes.

“Yes,” said his brother. Yes, I believe he is.”

The brothers arranged to meet at Albert’s flat for lunch. Albert Dawes was as reclusive as he was rich, which was saying a good deal. A brilliant financier, he had amassed a large fortune before he was thirty, but the money had brought little happiness. It had only been when he started giving it away that he had found any joy or purpose in his life. “Money,” he liked to say in the coarse way his father had always deplored, “is like s**t. It has to be spread around before it does any good.” 

Albert had discovered late in life a sense of humor and a love of laughter that his family had never seen. He had a strained relationship with them and preferred to be involved with the bank from a distance. He had never gotten along with Mr. Dawes Sr., disliking his autocratic rule of the family which continued long after they were all adults. Albert’s success had earned his father’s grudging respect but there was little affection between them. For many years Albert alternated between feeling sorry for his younger brother for being so much under their father’s thumb and despising him for not standing up to the old man. The brothers had grown closer since their father’s death and now regularly met for lunch and spoke on the phone. Albert Dawes had been very fond of his brother’s children and sincerely grieved the loss of his nephews. However, he had little use for his sister’s grandson, William Weatherall Wilkins, who he believed (quite correctly) was only waiting for him to die so he could inherit his fortune. 

“I see you’ve acquired a new accessory,” said Albert, looking curiously at the umbrella his brother had leaned against the table. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Dawes. “I’m not quite sure how I got it.”

Albert Dawes reached across the small table and tapped the parrot head with his spoon. He looked at it for a few moments as if he expected it to react in some way. “Yes, well sometimes these things acquire us,” he said. “If it doesn’t work as an umbrella you might be able to use it to open cans.”

Mr. Dawes Jr. thought he saw the parrot scowl, but it didn’t speak. He handed Miss Farthing’s notebook to his brother and than sat back and watched as Albert read through it. Albert Dawes frowned a great deal as he worked his way through the notebook.

“I must say that Miss Farthing takes very good notes and observes a great deal,” said Mr. Dawes.

“In addition to her secretarial and accounting courses, Penny Farthing took a first in English literature when she was at university,” answered Albert Dawes as he continued to read. “She is incredibly bright and much more qualified than any of those young yahoos the bank hires every year. If she was a man she would be a senior partner by now. I thought you were stupid for using her talents to type letters all these years, but only Willie could be idiot enough to expect her to make his tea.”

Finally finished with the notebook Albert Dawes shut it and set it aside. “Nineteen foreclosures in the last month,” he said looking at his brother. “That seems like an awful lot. And highly questionable loans too. I’d say Willie planned on the owners defaulting.”

“That’s what I thought too,” said Mr. Dawes. “They were very risky loans; several owners already had poor credit histories. The bank hasn’t earned any money. In fact it looks as if we’ve lost a good deal more.”

“I have very little use for our nephew,” said Albert, “but I will say that he knows how money and banks work. He has something up his sleeve, probably something dirty. I will dig into this and see what I can find out. I assume that’s why you brought me this information.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dawes nodding. “Whatever he has planned, I’ll do my best to stop it. But that doesn’t solve my real problem. I can go back to the bank and take charge again, but I’m a bit past it. It’s too tiring. I don’t know how father did it all those years.”

“He did it because he had you to do all the actual work,” said his brother. “You should go back. It will be good for the bank and good for you. You’ve always been busy and you won’t be happy sitting around the house without a job to do. But you can’t do it full time. You need to get yourself an assistant, someone who will help you do the day to day business of running the bank.” 

“But who?” asked Mr. Dawes. “My grandsons are in America, and I obviously can’t trust Willie.”

Albert scowled. “Think about it,” he said. “Your getting slow but you’re not completely senile yet. Though when you make your announcement the board is going to think you really are non compos mentis.”

Mr. Dawes looked at his brother and then smiled. Albert was right. There was someone loyal and observant he could trust, someone who knew the institution from bottom to top. It was going to cause quite a stir, but he could always say his choice was modern and progressive and came with the best of references. Albert Dawes had only once recommended someone for a job at the bank.

xxxxxxx

On Friday morning Mr. Dawes spent time looking through the photo albums he had brought down from the attic and remembering when his children had been young. It seemed like it was just a few years ago. but the truth was that Jack and Bertie would have been in their 50’s and Lavinia had three grown children. 

After lunch he lay down for a nap. He was going to give Willie every opportunity to do the right thing which meant he would have to be up until midnight. Shortly after dinner he took a cab to the bank and let himself in by the private entrance in the back. Unobserved he made his way to the Archive Room where he verified the amount of George Banks’ shares. He thought a moment and pulled the ledger listing all the inactive accounts. There was more than one way to leave a child money. The easiest was to put their name on a joint account. He quickly found what he was looking for. George had invested Michael’s tuppence, along with a bit extra, to show his son the potential earnings even a small amount could have. The account had done quite well, though there wasn’t enough in it to cover the amount of the loan. Mr. Dawes smiled to himself. That could be remedied by Monday morning when they did the paperwork. It was the least he could do for an old friend.

Waiting unseen in the conference room next to Willie’s office Mr. Dawes wondered why he was so sure that Michael would find the share certificate and be at the bank by midnight. Somehow a talking umbrella made even the impossible seem possible. He wished he could have the same assurance that Willie would behave honorably, but that was looking like an increasingly forlorn hope. Ah well, he should have known after reading the books what Willie was like.

He listened behind the door as Willie said that the share certificate was invalid without the signatures, and he heard with delight Michael telling Willie off and defending his children. George would have been proud. As Michael turned to leave saying that he had everything he needed right here, Mr. Dawes burst through the door and declared “He’s got you there Willie!”

She was there of course, in the office with Michael and Jane. Even if she hadn’t been holding the umbrella he would have recognized her from the pictures in the photo albums. He wished he knew her name but he had never bothered to remember it. She was the last one he had hired, but he had addressed her as Nanny just like all the others. Afterward, when Willie had been escorted from the building and Michael and Jane and the children were hugging each other and talking excitedly about the house, she smiled at him in approval. Mr. Dawes sighed and looked sadly at his feet propped on the desk. Forty years ago he had been in Michael’s place, a widower with three young children. But Michael had been involved in the lives of his children long before he lost his wife. Julia had been his bridge to Jack, Bertie and Lavinia, and when she had gone he hadn’t known them well enough to rebuild the bridge by himself. Jack, with one foot in adulthood, had reached toward him and met him partway, but then he had lost Jack too.

George’s namesake broke away from the family group and headed toward the desk to retrieve his kite. Mr. Dawes motioned the little boy to his side. “Georgie,” he asked, “Why did you use one of your father’s drawing to patch your kite?”

“I missed mother,” said the little boy solemnly. “I thought if I put our picture on the kite and flew it she’d see it up in heaven and know we still loved her.”

“I’m sure she knows,” said Mr. Dawes, his voice breaking a little. “Mothers usually do.”


	7. Chapter 7

The kite Mr. Dawes Jr. had started was almost finished. He still had to make the tail and decide if he wanted to decorate it. In the days following the events at the bank an idea planted by George’s grandson had begun to take shape in his mind. Probably just foolishness, he thought, but still who could really say? He retrieved Bertie’s sketchbook from the library and paged through it as he remembered the events from so long ago.

He had held onto hope until the last possible moment. Jack was strong and healthy, surely he would lick this thing. Afterward, he sat with his son’s body for hours unable to believe that he was really gone. It was old Mr. Dawes Sr. who badgered him out of the room and forced him to make arrangements for the visitations and funeral. He had moved like an automaton over the next three days, going through all the motions, saying the right things, but barely aware of who or what was around him. Jack’s body had been moved to the church for the funeral, the parlor being too small to accommodate the family, friends and business associates who would be coming. Mr. Dawes didn’t remember a word of the service or the interment. What he remembered next was the family all seated around the dining room table for the luncheon afterward. 

How many were there that day? Maybe twenty including his brother, sister, his niece and her husband and all the assorted cousins. The three youngest were there too. Bertie, Lavinia and Willie sat together towards the bottom of the table and his father, Mr. Dawes Sr. sat at the head. It was during a lull in the conversation that the words were spoken. “Yes,” said Mr. Dawes Sr. “A sad blow for the family, and one from which we will never recover. A pity it was Jack that was taken and not the younger boy.” In the shocked silence that followed all eyes turned toward Bertie, who sat silently looking down at his plate. Then without a word to anyone he folded his napkin and quietly left the table.

His brother Albert looked at him. “Jon,” he said urgently, “do something! Follow him, talk to him. Don’t let him leave like that.” But Mr. Dawes was rooted to his chair. Albert looked at him in disgust then stormed out of the dining room to find his nephew.

Lavinia rose to follow, but Mr. Dawes Sr. stopped her. “Sit down Lavinia until you have permission to leave.” When she didn’t immediately obey his father had looked at him. “Jon,” he barked. “Control your daughter!”

“Lavinia, sit down!” Mr. Dawes Jr. had commanded as a white hot flame of anger began to burn inside of him. “Sit down and finish your meal!” His voice was harsh with fury, and his mind was whirling. His father was right. It wasn’t fair! Why Jack and not Bertie? Why did it have to be his eldest taken and not his disappointing second son? In that moment he would have given Bertie for Jack, and in his heart he knew that Bertie had known it too. It was the unforgivable thing he had done that day. It was the reason he couldn’t go after his son or speak the words that a father should be able to say. 

In that moment Bertie had slipped away and Mr. Dawes had lost him forever. Not physically. For four more years they lived in the same house, but a wall of silence grew between them. Always shy around his father Bertie soon stopped speaking to him altogether, and Mr. Dawes, resolutely burying his grief and guilt, busied himself with his work and tried to avoid his son as much as possible. Bertie returned to school where he continued to struggle with his studies, but there were other problems in the years following Jack’s death. The boy that had always been gentle and polite began to change in to a bitter, angry young man. He was disrespectful to his teachers. He broke rules and picked fights. He smuggled alcohol and tobacco into the dorm and sneaked off campus to drink in the local pubs. Inevitably he was expelled. 

At home and away from school the behavior continued and furious fights resulted. Even Lavinia, who loved her brother, was unable to reason with him. Mr. Dawes Sr. had had enough. One night after a particularly violent quarrel he ordered Bertie out of the house and told him not to come back. Mr. Dawes Jr. remembered the look his son had given him, defiant and yet questioning, as if he wondered if this was what his father wanted also. Then without another word he turned and left. Mr. Dawes had never seen him again. Where he went and what he did, Mr. Dawes had no idea. Years passed and it seemed that most people forgot that there were three Dawes children. And then the war happened and the letter arrived and it was too late. 

Mr. Dawes had spent years hiding from his guilt and responsibility but not anymore. He had ordered a headstone to place next to Jack’s in the cemetery, something he should have done years ago. And he was already planning on making several large donations to individuals and institutions studying dyslexia. But those were cold ways to remember the boy in Lavinia’s books. When she came to visit they would talk and find a fitting way to honor Bertie’s memory. He wanted something warm and alive and fun like the boy who had drawn the pictures in the sketchbook—something that involved children and art and nature. Together they would figure out something.

Nothing would ever make up for what he had done. Mr. Dawes longed for a tangible way to let his son know that he was sorry and ask his forgiveness for the unforgivable. He sat the sketchbook aside and went in search of a pair of scissors.

Late in the afternoon on the day of the Spring Fair an elderly gentleman with snow white hair walked through the gate of the park carrying a kite. Most of the crowd had left and the fair was winding down. Mr. Dawes paused by a bench where the balloon lady was packing her cart preparing to leave.

“I’m afraid all the balloons are gone,” she said.

“That’s all right. I’m not much of a balloon person,” said Mr. Dawes. “I came here to see if there was enough wind to fly my kite.”

“It’s lovely,” she said with admiration. “Did you build it yourself?”

“I did,” said Mr. Dawes

“And the drawings, did you do those too?”

Mr. Dawes looked down at the kite in his hands. It was beautiful, covered with drawings of animals and plants. In the middle was a sketch of a little frog playing a guitar. “No,” he said softly, “my son did them when he was a boy. They’ve been shut up in a trunk for years. It’s time they were brought out.”

With the help of the park keeper, Mr. Dawes launched the kite and then used all his skills to get it high into the air. An admiring group of people gathered around to watch. The currents above were much stronger and Mr. Dawes could feel the kite pulling hard on the string. Suddenly it snapped and the kite was free. 

“Oh no!” said a lady carrying a small dog. “Your beautiful kite. I’m so sorry!”

“It hasn’t crashed yet. We can chase it,” offered a young man. “We’ll get our bikes.”

“I don’t think it’s coming down,” said an older man who looked like a retired sailor. The man in the wheelchair next to him agreed. “No, it isn’t,” he said. “It’s almost as if it knows where it’s going.”

“Maybe it does,” said the balloon lady smiling at Mr. Dawes as if she had a bit of secret knowledge. He thought of the sketch in the middle of the kite and the message he had written on the back. As the kite soared higher and vanished into the clouds his heart lifted with it and he smiled back at her. “Yes,” he agreed. “Maybe it does.”


End file.
